Bright Minds in Dark Places
by Waterlou25
Summary: This is a rather dark piece concentrating on the convoluted mind of Sherlock as he discovers his true desires...and embraces them. WARNINGS: There will be blood, lust and murderously heinous thoughts. Perhaps not in chapter one but you will see...
1. Flush Them

It had been 3 months since John and Sherlock had moved in together. At first their relationship had been agreeable enough but, as the weeks went by, John realized that Sherlock was a man who preferred solitude. He would often ignore John when he spoke to him or otherwise simply gaze absently into space. Sherlock was becoming more and more withdrawn from him; usually keeping to his room or his research in the lab. John suspected that Sherlock was merely working on a secret case that he did not wish to discuss with him but John had never been very apt at deciphering Sherlock, or anything at all for that matter, and Sherlock was tiring of John. In fact, he found him rather annoying at times. He was so boring, uninteresting, inconsequential, irrelevant and, most of all, simple-minded.

Sherlock longed for someone to match him at every turn or even challenge him. All these people around him were so dull with their routine lives and their mindless interests. At the turn of the century, these people would be forgotten as though they had never been and, if they were remembered, it would only be by their kin. It was always the same. Every time Sherlock got close to anyone, he would soon spot every single minuscule flaw in that person and tear them down in his mind. He would pick at every detail until he no longer held any esteem for that person and, oh, they were so easy to break down. To tear apart into mere, disappointing, data. These people expected him to care for them; to be polite and say please but how could he even respect them? These people, these flimsy excuses for people, were nothing to him. How could he benefit from them? He should simply dismiss them from his thoughts in order to make room for more important ones. To make room for a challenge. Now, someone like Moriarty offered a much more appealing way of utilizing his thoughts. Moriarty: the man who could bring about an old puzzle he'd solved just as a means of saying hello. The sneakers he had delicately placed in the decrepit room had been rather clever of him. Only Jim Moriarty would have known that he would understand his message. Only he was worthy of Sherlock's full attention. Even Miss Adler, who had first seemed somewhat of a challenge, had become dull the minute she had developed romantic feelings towards him. Her intelligence had become shrouded in foolish doubt and clouded with thoughts of seduction. She was already a modicum of dust in his mind now. They were all dust. All of them. They were all nestling in his brain; forming into mindless wearisome filth and feckless waste. If only he could drown them all out of his brain. Flush them out like a rotting once-beloved pet.

A sly smirk spread across Sherlock's face as he imagined all these futile people being discarded like vile, putrid, flesh. Their minds were feeble and his was great. There was no denying that his was great as they reminded him of it everyday with their unbelievable expressions of insipidity whenever he presented them with new clues. He was always forced to explain himself. It was all so tedious. Certainly, they distrusted him for they did not understand the ways in which he could solve an enigma within minutes while others could waste their entire impotent career trying to pry an answer from an inane witness. How many times had they come to the conclusion that he was the indecorous murderer? How many times had they questioned him on some false pretext to obtain any form of an alibi out of him? Of course, if they could think properly, they would have known that he would never make such blatantly obvious mistakes if he were to commit such delightfully heinous crimes. His would be much gorier with no trace of relevant evidence. No, his crimes would be talked about for centuries. He was not a man to be forgotten. At least in his line of work he wasn't required to remain anonymous, although, it was true that Moriarty never felt the need to remain anonymous within _his_ line of work. He was minacious, impeccable and cleverly obvious in a way that made him immune to capture. Oh, yes, he was quite a challenging character. Sherlock even found himself looking up to him at times. He had never yet found anyone who had surpassed the level of an equal in any terms. Even an equal never lasted very long. Soon, Sherlock would tear them down just as he had done with all their antecedents. Sherlock wondered if Moriarty could ever be broken in such a way. Was it possible that he had found someone capable of stimulating him continuously without ever ceasing to astound him?

Suddenly, Sherlock knew what he needed. Needed more than anything he had ever needed before. He had been there all this time simply dangling himself in front of him like a shiny prize yet Sherlock had never realized that it had been a prize he even desired. Oh, but it was so very obvious now. Sherlock leaped out of his armchair and strode swiftly past John, who had been quietly updating his blog in the chair in front of him, to yank out the pocket knife that he had planted into the mantelpiece to hold his mail. He turned on his heel and proceeded to put on his tweed coat over his silk purple shirt. "I'm off! Don't know when I'll be back; don't wait up!" exclaimed Sherlock before rushing back into the living room to search for something he had left behind in a locked compartment.

"Don't you want to grab a bite before you go?" asked John, looking disconcerted by Sherlock's sudden energy. He was also a little disappointed that he had not been invited to join along. Sherlock simply stared at John with contempt in the doorway while putting on his scarf. He then chuckled away John's silly question before bursting out the door with an entirely different light about him. A much darker light. As he walked away from 221B Baker Street and into the cold city streets, Sherlock fastened one hand around the pocket knife he had snatched from the mantelpiece and another on a tightly bound package containing something that put a wide grin on Sherlock's face as he squeezed it tighter in his grasp.


	2. Why Deny Ourselves?

As he walked South down Baker Street, Sherlock slipped out his mobile to scroll through his old text messages until he spotted the sender he wanted: M. He smiled a little at the last text he had received from Moriarty. It was simple, concise and unmistakeably intelligent.

The prospect of a challenging human being was never something Sherlock had ever dreamed possible yet every new possibility of finding such an individual filled him with great excitement. He pondered a moment over which course of action he should pursue; whether to ask bluntly or take his time with his request. The latter seemed too diverting to pass but his need was growing. Perhaps the witty banter should wait. He had never really communicated much with Moriarty but every time he did he was left with a sense of delirious excitement and, possibly, regret. Not a regret that he was leaving the man but a regret that he himself had not strayed long ago into the same path as James Moriarty. He was envious of his freedom from sentiment, obligations, and niceties. James certainly recognized himself in Sherlock and rightly so. The pair might even have worked together if not for certain life choices Sherlock had made along the way. He often questioned the choices that had brought him to who he was at this moment and wondered what had made him chose one way rather than an other. He knew he was not a good man but perhaps he hoped to be one, unconsciously. For him to care enough to make those choices there had to at least be some good in him. He was tired of it all; the constant struggle to try to do the right thing. He wanted to be selfish as he had once let himself be. That time seemed so far away in his past now. He wanted it back.

He squeezed the tightly bound package he was holding, recognizing an old sensation he had repressed not so very long ago. The darkness was seeping back through his flesh and it felt good. He stroked the blade of his pocket knife with his thumb and let himself feel the familiar shiver of delight as the cold metal slowly adjusted to his warmth. His limbs trembled slightly as his body anticipated what was to come. His jaw tightened as the placebo-type effect from holding his all-too-familiar parcel began to take effect. He would let himself be tonight.

Sherlock knew all too well that Moriarty's interest in him was not solely restricted to his mind. He possessed a certain infatuation for him that Sherlock was rather unfamiliar with. When he looked at him it was with hungry eyes that dripped of lust and lecherousness. Sherlock knew that he would not deny a request to meet but just how far could he push the criminal using only his feelings of lust for him? Sherlock knew his desires would match the cruel and clever nature of his admirer and perhaps that aspect would attract the man to acquiesces with his desires for tonight. Sherlock looked back towards his flat, which was still barely visible in the distance, and had no feelings of repent. John was alone amusing himself with the preoccupations of a lower class of people. He smirked at the idea. Sherlock stopped and spread his back on the outer wall of a nearby shop. Taking one last look at what he had left behind, Sherlock selected Moriarty's number and typed.

"Are you alone?" His message suggested that he wanted to meet but Sherlock also tried to make it contain a hint of some sort of sexual insinuation, which Sherlock was certain would catch Moriarty's ravenous attention. It did. "Where?!" The short lapse in time before Sherlock received the answer and the double punctuation suggested urgency, just as anticipated. "I've left home and I am armed with gifts." "_Armed"_ was the key word and "_left home"_ might also be interpreted by Moriarty as "_left John"_ thus reminding him of the small chance that Sherlock might have had a more than platonic relationship with John. This was not the case but Sherlock knew that James either believed this or wished it to be true. He always mockingly mentioned their relationship as being intimate in the hopes that either of them might admit to it in any subtle way. If it were true then Moriarty would know that he had at least somewhat of a chance.

The message provoked a short reply from the self-proclaimed villain. "I am always near. Ask for Jim Marshall at the Dorset Square Hotel." He was indeed very close. The hotel was a mere 4 blocks away. Melcombe street was just to his right. He walked briskly along the dimly lit Melcombe street until he reached Dorset Square. The hotel was just a few steps away from him. His mouth was salivating and his palms were sweaty from grasping each object in his hand so tightly. His chest felt tight in both a good and bad way. The feeling was familiar and he knew the feeling would increase in severity soon. He stepped in the great doors of the entrance hall blowing as much air out of his lungs as he could muster; it was a hopeless attempt to correct his breathing. He spotted the front desk immediately and walked over slowly. He glanced at his reflection in the windows on his left to make sure he was presentable before stepping in the front desk's line. There was just one guest ahead of him.

"Mr. Jim Marshall, please." The desk clerk called an employee over to show him the way and the disgruntled man begged him to follow him. He was a miserable fool; a closet kleptomaniac by the look of his pockets. They had been resized to fit larger objects and the edges showed wear-and-tear despite the sleek look of a brand new pair of pants; the hems still hadn't been frayed from walking. The way the man's hands were forcibly placed over the opening of the pockets suggested that he had become accustomed to trying to hide their contents. Yet the man didn't even have enough money to by himself a decent pair of shoes despite being on his feet all day. This suggested either that he had a large debt to pay, that he was also a hoarder, or that he had some sort of addiction that ate away at his earnings, or perhaps that he spent all his money on buying new pants with bigger and bigger pockets. The latter made Sherlock chuckle softly. The clerk glanced back at Sherlock before guiding him into the elevator. Sherlock smiled at the employee's discomfort; the man was miserable in Sherlock's opinion. The clerk turned in his key to gain access to the upper floor where Moriarty's penthouse must be. As the doors opened, the clerk bid him farewell and Sherlock didn't even deign the man with any sign of acknowledgement. The doors shut and Sherlock stood alone in a hall of white marble.

"Have you come to stab me to death? Your blade is a little small." Moriarty was leaning in the doorway further down the hall and was blankly gazing at Sherlock's pocket knife still in Sherlock's tight grasp. "Only if you want. I want to give you only what you want, Moriarty." Sherlock didn't need to hear Moriarty's quiet shudder to know what effect those words would have on him. The man aptly composed himself however. "Please, call me Jim." He said softly. Sherlock felt slightly uneasy at being untruthfully flirtatious with Moriarty. Were it anyone else he would not have a problem but he feared that this calculating man might see through his act.

"Alright then, Jim. Shall we sit down or should we keep a safe distance from each other?"

"Are you afraid of what I might do if you get too close, Sherlock?" He purred. Sherlock drifted closer and headed for the living room that was to his right. Moriarty followed with a sort of elegant waltz. Sherlock set down his possessions neatly in front of him on the glass table before leaning back on the chair behind him and crossing his legs comfortably. Jim sat to his right on another matching white sofa chair. He glanced keenly at the things on the table before looking back at Sherlock. "What have you brought me?" Sherlock avoided looking at Moriarty directly but kept him in his peripheral vision. He feared that making eye contact might reveal too much of his desire and that the clever man would be able to deduce what he wanted. Sherlock liked keeping a sense of mystery to his visit, at least for the moment.

"Something to revel in." Sherlock suppressed a small smile as he spoke. His look was fiendishly dark as he searched for any sign of reluctance in Moriarty's demeanor but found only a willingness for what was to come. Sherlock's heart felt tight as it pounded ever more rapidly. He wanted to let himself go like in his past but go even further this time. He had dabbled in drugs before, especially in cocaine. Methamphetamine, however, was one he had longed to try but never had a chance to. Mycroft had mad sure of it. He had had his supplies stashed away in his safe ever since, unbeknownst to his brother. He wanted his experience to be shared with someone, however, and Moriarty was the perfect someone to share his dangerous passion with tonight. He knew now by looking at Moriarty's expression that he would accept whatever Sherlock was here to suggest. Sherlock wanted more than just this experience with his current companion; he wanted a challenge in his life. He wanted to be recognized for his genius by more than just John. He wanted the world to know of him and his skill. He wanted to commit crimes. Solving them could only satisfy him for so long. Moriarty had come so far and accomplished so much. Together, the possibilities were infinite. For now though Sherlock just wanted to make this first step into his new long-overdue life.

Moriarty was patiently waiting for Sherlock to explain himself. He was smiling contemplatively as his eyes scanned over Sherlock, trying to read him. "I want it all; everything you have. I want it all and more." Sherlock spoke the words but took some time before finally looking to see Moriarty's reaction. The man's eyes were lit with a bright light and an all-encompassing smile stretched across his face. Both features said much more than Sherlock could ever possibly want to hear in words. James Moriarty was pleased.

"You can have it all, Sherlock. Anything you want. We'll work hand and hand against what has ever held you back from your true self. We are one and the same tonight, Sherlock, and we'll be the best and the worst together. We'll show them all what true intellect is and make them regret they ever wanted to discover what it was in the first place." Moriarty's eyes were glistening as though all his ambitions were close enough to grasp. "We'll do what we want, when we want and no one will ever even know how to stop us. We're two pieces to a whole world of burning chaos that could never thrive without one another. We'll burn it all and build it all up again from the ashes. We'll mold this world and make it our own." His breathing was deep and he gulped hard while licking his lip. Sherlock sensed arousal sweltering through the man's pores. The villain's attraction for him was more undeniable now than it had ever been. Sherlock believed it strange that such a moment could evoke any sexual energy from anyone. All he wanted now was to burn through the world and inject the drugs with his new found equal who had just voiced the prefect narrative to his approaching life. His soul had been doomed the moment Moriarty had smiled to the sweet sound of him voicing his long-suppressed desires.

Both continued to gaze into each others eyes, both contemplating different things yet somehow similar feelings. Sherlock carefully turned towards the package he had so carefully bore. He sat on his heels on the carpet below him. A smooth ribbon held the fabric together. He reached to unravel it as Moriarty slowly slid his right hand across the table to steady himself as he lowered his body onto the floor next to Sherlock. The silky material unraveled almost too easily, almost as though its only desire was to expose its contents. Sherlock unwound the rolled up cloth to reveal four hermetically sealed syringes and a glass receptacle that contained a large amount of amphetamine. Sherlock knew how to produce an inject-able solution from his searches on the internet. He had once used this research to compensate for his inability to use any drugs whatsoever. Total abstinence had been his only way to stay off of drugs. Yet, here he was about to throw it all away. He did not care for even a second. James Moriarty was here with him and wanted every aspect of him out on display. He would guide him, keep him safe, and keep him sane. Sherlock would never be able to quit him as he had once quit drugs. There would never be any part of him that would regret this liberation. Moriarty would be his salvation tonight and forever.

The drugs, finally. Injecting amphetamine pills was almost always dangerous but D-Methamphetamine HCl was relatively safe due to its salt form. Moriarty curiously watched from the side lines as Sherlock prepared the solution with the sterilized equipment that was tucked in the pockets of his cloth parcel. Amphetamine was most commonly taken orally but Sherlock had experience with injection drug use and wanted to try. He could sense Moriarty's eyes on him as his breathing became more erratic the more his anticipation for the needle grew. Both of them were side by side: Sherlock was concentrating on his solution while Jim was lustfully eying Sherlock from the corner of his eye, probably imagining the unlimited possibilities that were ahead. This was the moment both of them had always required for their lives to finally feel real.

The atmosphere was heavy with need. Sherlock set down two prepared needles and hurriedly curled up his sleeve on his left arm. Moriarty scanned every portion of his exposed skin, longing to see more of the man who would accompany him in hell. Sherlock paused for a moment and looked over at Moriarty inquisitively. "Have you done anything like this before?" Moriarty shook his head signalling that he had not. "I'll let you do me first so I can guide you through it then I'll do you since I'll be able to handle it even while I'm feeling the effects of the amphetamine." Jim nodded and licked his lips sensually as he examined the way Sherlock was breathing heavily through his mouth. He was mesmerized by the sheer power of Sherlock's need for this new life with him.

Sherlock tied a rubber band tightly around his upper arm. He delicately placed one of the syringes in Jim's hand. Jim cupped Sherlock's elbow in his palm to gain a steady hold. Touching the man he had so often fantasized about drove his heart into a massive flutter of spasms but he tried to keep calm. He leaned closer, fully aware of the proximity of his mouth to Sherlock's, and properly grasped the needle. "Tilt the syringe a little more and go for the most visible vein. Don't go too deep." Sherlock's low whisper was filled with an arousing bass-y rumble that made Jim's cheeks flush but he did as he was told. He pierced the skin and slowly pushed the contents of the instrument into the warm body sitting mere inches away from his.

Sherlock exhaled deeply and wet his lips slightly. Moriarty's lips parted as he admired the pure delight emanating from his other self. He tentatively caressed the spot where he had injected Sherlock with the drug, wiping away the small bubble of blood that had formed at the site. Sherlock was gently rocking back an forth on his knees as he took hold of the second needle. He softly pushed Moriarty, whom was licking his fingers clean of Sherlock's blood, to make him lay on his back. He put pressure on the man's arm to make his veins visible and adeptly injected the solution. Jim let out a long, low moan as he let the drug quickly take effect. His confidence built up suddenly, more so than usual. Sherlock had gotten up and was pacing around the room. Jim was inspecting every detail of his body while he paced. He felt shaky but really good. He felt like anything could be interesting. His thoughts were all over the place. He got up and moved closer to Sherlock who stopped his pacing. "What now?" Moriarty asked.

"It doesn't really matter now, does it? Everything right now, in this moment is an excellent idea." Replied Sherlock. He was trembling ever so slightly. Moriarty craved Sherlock's touch but the drug seemed to have removed much of his sexual energy. He was clenching his fists and jaw from the power of the methamphetamine taking a hold of him. He decided it might be best to wait until the drug wore off to get closer to his object of desire, and until Sherlock became more willing to accept his touch. Suddenly, a fiendish idea popped into his brain as he recognized a strange and alluring darkness in Sherlock's eyes while he looked out the window into the depths of the cityscape before him. "Let's give someone a crime to solve, shall we?" He proposed in a soft murmur. Both looked at each, with the sound of blood vigorously pumping through their veins, and laughed.

This night would be the first night of the rest of their of their existence. One spent together, forever even beyond the grave.


End file.
